


Détente

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Actually Married, Bottom Hannibal, F/M, Oral Sex, Pegging, Pretending To Be Married, Sex Toys, Wedding Night, femdom!Bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:19:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bedelia and Hannibal have very different ideas about how their marriage should be consummated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Détente

**Author's Note:**

> Just let me pretend that Bedelia and Hannibal being married in Italy is a non-stop sex romp for a little while longer.

Getting married had been Bedelia’s idea.

“But don’t you think it’s a bit,” Hannibal searches for the correct word, “superfluous? If we act married and tell people we are married, no one will question it.”

“A legal marriage would prevent us from having to testify against one another,” she explains. “I could not testify against you, and you could not testify against me, no matter what deal the FBI or Interpol offered. We would both be protected.”

“A type of mutually assured destruction. A stalemate.” He has to admire her foresight, elegant in its simplicity.

“It kept the peace during the Cold War,” she says, coolly tossing her curls over her shoulder.

Hannibal finds himself smiling—he can think of no better metaphor for their relationship. “Well, shall we make our way to the nearest registry office?”

*****

Perhaps it had been naïve of him, but Hannibal had not expected much to change after his brief, perfunctory marriage to Bedelia. They had signed a registry before a nondescript Italian official, placed rings on each other’s fingers, and ended the ceremony with a chaste kiss that burned on his lips for days afterward. Imagine to his surprise, his heart popping like a soap bubble that evening when Bedelia retired to her separate bedroom without anything more than a polite goodnight.

They go on a full month like this, nothing said and nothing spoken about their entirely legal, entirely unconsummated marriage. In the marble hallways of the Palazzo Capponi and the cobblestoned streets of Florence, Bedelia is his wife, his hand resting in the small of her back as if it had been tailor-made to fit. At home, they behave as very intimate friends do, as roommates who enjoy each other’s company if not each other’s beds. The contrast chafes at Hannibal more than he would like to admit. And since Bedelia seemed to have no interest in addressing the issue, it falls on him to bring it up, very delicately. He must do so in a way that will not seem rude, or worse, desperate.

He waits until one starry evening when they are lingering over dessert, Bedelia content as she swirls a silver spoon in the creamy  _caffe affogato_ he has made for her.

“Bedelia…” he says as he covers her left hand, gently running his thumb over her own.

“Hmm?”

“I am concerned about the legality of our marriage.”

She wrinkles her nose a little. “The fact that we married under false names worries me, but at least it will give the lawyers something to argue about.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m concerned about.”

“Oh?”

“Has it occurred to you that this plan of yours has one glaring flaw?” She looks back at him, blonde eyebrows raised in skepticism. “It would be very easy for a judge to invalidate our union, as our marriage has never been consummated.”

 “What do you suggest?” she asks before reaching for another spoonful of creamy coffee.

He wants to curse at her for making him spell it out so blatantly. “I respect your wishes either way, of course, but I would prefer not to leave ourselves exposed on that front, especially when there is such an obvious solution.”

A rueful smile tugs at the corner of Bedelia’s lips. “Do you always entice your lovers into bed with talk of legal technicalities?”

Hannibal exhales sharply through his nose and rises from the table. “What are you trying to say?”

“It’s not exactly seductive what you’re proposing.”

“You wish to be seduced?” He crosses and stands behind her chair, letting his palms rest on her shoulders and his fingers toy with the ends of her hair. She tenses slightly, but does not ask him to stop. “That can be arranged. I think you know my reputation as a generous and considerate lover.”

Bedelia turns around. Her face is that of a marble Diana, hardly the look of a woman quivering with repressed desire. “You presume a great deal. For example, that I am attracted to men at all.”

He blinks, and for a moment nearly doubts himself. “I don’t presume you are attracted to men, but I can say with a fair degree of certainty that you are attracted to me.”

“Really,” she says, a bright challenge in her eye that sparks something deep within him.

He lets his fingers travel down the length of her arms, delighting in the way tiny blonde hairs raise as if magnetized to his skin. “You know me to be an observant man. The dilation of your pupils, the quickening of your pulse when we touch,”  _your scent,_ he thinks but does not say, deep fecund musk overpowering the dry iris of her perfume. “Other men might miss such signals, but I do not.”

Bedelia nods and sips her coffee. She neither confirms nor denies his suspicions.

“It needn’t happen tonight, of course,” he says as casually as he knows how.

“I will need a few days. When the time is right, you will know,” she says, an enigma and a promise in one.

*****

The night of the museum gala is the night. Bedelia says nothing, but deep inside, he knows.

It reminds him of making  _beurre noisette_. The butter simmering on a low, steady heat, simmering and simmering until that moment when it finally  _turns_ , yielding to a rich caramel, the warm scent of hazelnuts filling the air. It’s an utterly magical process. He feels it now between them.

Her choice of a backless gold and navy brocade dress that clings to her curves like dark water, the light in her eyes as he whisks her around the ballroom floor, turn after graceful turn. The way his heart leaps when she catches him staring at her, flute of champagne in one hand, the long train of her dress in another. They are in a gaggle of elegant glitterati, yet Bedelia sparkles brightest of all,  _stella maris_ , star of the sea.

_My wife_ , he thinks, the diamond on her hand outshone only by the brilliance of her wit. He is intoxicated, but not with drink.

They leave the gala and arrive home somewhat early. As they cross the threshold of their villa, the atmosphere thickens with tension and uncertainty, the air scented with ozone as in the second before a lightening strike.

Bedelia walks down the corridor to her bedroom alone. He is crestfallen until he hears her rich voice call out, “Hannibal? Could you please come and help me with my dress?”

He enters her room and stands behind her. He savors the heat radiating between their two bodies, humid and tropical. With one hand, he grasps the brocade while his thumb and forefinger unzip her dress. The fabric yields before his touch, revealing slightly freckled skin. He stops mid-back, the point of modesty.

“Go on,” Bedelia says.

Biting back a groan and suddenly aware of the growing tightness in his own tuxedo trousers, Hannibal finishes unzipping her dress. It pools at her feet in a starry sea. She’s naked, the full round perfection of her breasts reflect back at him from the mirror of her vanity, more beautiful than he had ever imagined. She is as majestic out of her clothes as she is in them.

Never breaking eye-contact with her reflection, he reaches out with his forefinger and traces her hourglass curves, the most  _pinasssimo_  of touches, skimming lightly from shoulder, to forearm, to the soft arc of her hip. Bedelia smiles mysteriously, emboldening him. He spreads his left hand over her bare stomach, guiding her closer to him until her naked body rests between his legs like a gilded harp. He plants a kiss to her hair as he runs his hands over her bare skin, stroking and plucking, arousing and playing upon her until he at last draws forth a small sweet moan of pleasure, more beautiful to him than music.

Bedelia pirouettes slowly in the circle of his arms and her hardened nipples tease him deliciously through the thin fabric of his tuxedo shirt. With quiet confidence, she tugs at his bow tie and slides his dinner jacket off his shoulders. She arches up on her toes and breathes in his scent with a sensuality that matches his own. She kisses him then—a kiss of slow, gentle experimentation. It slices through him like a scalpel, and he is utterly undone with how much he wants her, fascinated with the mystery of how though she is naked, he is the one who feels exposed. Hannibal tangles his hands in Bedelia’s curls and attempts to kiss her back, but the moment his lips brush hers, Bedelia pulls away, planting her small hand firmly on his chest, the mildest of stop signs.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just be a moment,” she tells him almost demurely.

“Of course.” Women’s mysteries, he thinks to himself, enjoying the view as Bedelia’s form retreats into the master bath. She is brazen in her nudity, and though he did not expect this, it delights him. He enjoys a woman who can wear her own skin as confidently as a Marchesa ballgown. With the smile of a cat with a canary between his teeth, Hannibal divests himself of his remaining clothes, delighting in the way the rich fabric slides off his body, further arousing him. He spreads himself across Bedelia’s peacock satin duvet, idly stroking his erect cock as he waits for her return.

When she at last opens the door, he is shocked by the sight of her. Dark lace underwear hugs her every curve. And through an opening in the front, a phallus made of blue and gold flecked Venetian glass protrudes, as impressive as his own.

Truly, the last time he had been so stunned a man had emerged from the belly of a horse.

Bedelia says, voice sparkling with diamond hardness, “You said you wished to consummate our marriage.”

Hannibal swallows, a thickness in his throat now matching the thickness of his cock. “I did.”

“You did not specify how.” Bedelia strides forward, and he is mesmerized by how well the glass member suits her, how seamlessly it fits the icy perfection of the rest of her. “You presumed that you were going to penetrate me.”

“I suppose so.”

Bedelia wrinkles her pert little nose. “You present yourself as a cosmopolitan man of the world, Hannibal, but it seems your tastes are more…conventional…than I thought.”

He has been called many things, but certainly never conservative. “If you are asking if I have been penetrated before, the answer is yes. I am a hedonist, I enjoy pleasure in all of its forms, Bedelia.”

“But not often. And not by a woman.”

“Yes,” he concedes through gritted teeth. Bedelia as usual is too observant by half.

She gently places a hand now on his bare shoulder, and he feels her eyes travel over his naked body in a way that makes him feel suddenly transformed from predator to prey. Her hand combs through his pomaded hair, freeing it from its stiff pompadour, and he can feel the last threads of his person suit being picked away. “Would you like to?” she asks.

He rises, physically and mentally, to meet her challenge. He will call Bedelia’s bluff. If she wishes to play the groom’s role on their wedding night, he sees no reason not to humor her. “I want to take you as my wife, and I want you to take me as your husband. However you would like to interpret that.”

Bedelia smiles, “Good.”

He takes her in his arms and kisses her, kisses downward and downward, pausing to nip at her collar bone, and pay courtly attention to her nipples. He sucks and bites at them until he feels her knees shake, the cold glass of the dildo teasing up against his own warm cock. He does not stop until he is on his knees before her. If Bedelia wishes to do this, he will lavish the same attention on her he would one of his male lovers. He wraps his left hand around the smooth, thick glass and brings it to his lips, teasing the tip slowly at first, pleased when Bedelia’s pupils grow wide with unexpected arousal. He fellates the head, giving her his very finest technique, no doubt she would be screaming for him were her cock made of flesh and not of glass. Relaxing his gag reflex, he takes the long thick length of it inside of him, swallowing it like a mouthful of cold spring water.

Bedelia gives a throaty moan, rolling her hips to fuck the back of his throat. He reaches between her thighs and fingers her through the damp lace. She’s so obviously aroused it makes his cock ache. He is desperate to taste her, to touch her, and so frustrated that he knows she will not let him. At least not tonight.

He pulls back, releasing her, swirling his tongue across the head, a gesture so obviously experienced, it makes Bedelia’s mouth fall open in undisguised lust.

“You are no novice at this, Hannibal,” she says, half-gasping.

“I’m a cosmopolitan man of the world, Bedelia, remember?”

Bedelia arches her eyebrows, her attempt at coolness and impartiality undermined by the obvious flush in her cheeks, the bee-stung pout of her lips. “On the bed,” she says, with a businesslike flick of her wrist.

Hannibal reclines against the satin duvet, delighting in the way it slides against his naked buttocks, glistening erection brushing up against his stomach. Bedelia sidles up alongside him, breasts level with his head.

She hands him a small clear bottle of lube. “I could do this myself,” she purrs, “but I think I’d rather watch you.”

Hannibal’s own mouth falls open, feels his own already hot skin flush from head to chest at her suggestion. The thought of her eyes upon him, watching as he pleasures himself, readying himself for her is like an opiate, potent and addicting. “As you wish,” he says, opening the bottle and squeezing out a large dollop on his first two fingers, arching up slightly to plant a brief kiss against Bedelia’s lips.

Bedelia rests a hand on his knee, nudging his legs apart. “Open,” she says, with all the power of a magic word. He spreads his legs wide for her first, then the muscular globes of his ass. He poises one finger at his entrance, pushing in slow and gentle. Against his own will, his body arches up and he lets forth a deep hiss of pleasure.

Bedelia looks on approvingly, eyes sparkling like dark stars, as he begins to finger himself, moving slowly in and out. It is so very tempting to rush it and he’s almost ashamed to find how ready and relaxed he is already, how very much he wants her to take him hard and fast right now. He can’t ever remember his body responding so quickly, so wholeheartedly before.

One soft hand strokes his hair, while he watches the other fondle her own breast. Hannibal takes a poppy red nipple between his teeth as he plunges a second finger inside of him. They moan aloud in counterpoint, a strange duet.

He’s fucking himself eagerly now, grinding shamelessly upon his own fingers, prostate swollen and aching, just out of reach. He’s so painfully hard he has to bite his lip to keep himself from begging Bedelia to touch him.

Her tongue traces the shell of his ear, her teeth caress the tender lobe, and it’s so tantalizing he thinks might split himself in half restraining his own arousal. “Are you ready for me, Hannibal?” she breathes into his ear.

“Yes,” he says in a hot and ragged whisper.

She draws away from him and her small hands press against his shoulder, as if to roll him over and take him from behind. “No,” he tells her firmly. “We’ve waited so long…I need to see you, Bedelia.”

Something ghostly and tender flickers in her eyes and she nods. Bedelia swings her legs down to the floor and positions herself at the edge of the bed. She grips him under his knees and draws him toward her with a strength he would never have guessed her petite form possessed. Hannibal sees her now, a virago, the toned biceps she had kept hidden beneath demure long-sleeved blouses and tastefully conservative jackets flexing, glistening with sweat. The slick head of her glass phallus brushes up against his entrance. Serenely, she pushes it inside him, spreading him wide,  _taking_ him, and he moans aloud, gripping the bed sheets and seeing stars.

She moves gradually, tenderly at first, letting him adjust to her girth and length. A man, he thinks, would be overeager, impatient to reach his own orgasm. The realization that Bedelia intends to take him slowly, that she is the lover and he the beloved overcomes him. He feels cracked open, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with penetration or nudity.

The full head of the dildo pushes against his prostate and he is awash in the most pleasurable pain, the most painful pleasure. He burns, a dark saint in ecstasy.

Bedelia’s eyes flash, vixen-sly. “Like that, _mi amore_?”

He moans incoherently in response, nodding. “More,” he begs.

Bedelia tightens her grip on his knees and plunges into him with deep, steady strokes. Her left hand grabs his cock, stroking it in time with her thrusts. Hannibal’s entire body feels like one great instrument of pleasure played roughly, a wanton and needy mess as he writhes against the sheets of her bed. Impatient, his right hand joins Bedelia’s left and together they work the length of him. He comes quickly, shamelessly, pearlescent ejaculate streaking across his chest like spun sugar icing.

Bedelia, her sharp features soft with lust, slowly begins to slide the dildo out of him, leaving him raw and empty. He watches in a dreamy daze as she removes the thick glass cock and then proceeds to peel off her lacy harness. The lips of her cunt swollen and glistening, Bedelia climbs atop the bed, straddling his face. Obediently, he buries his tongue and lips in her cunt as she rocks back in forth in the position appropriately dubbed “queening.” Bedelia is wonderfully savory. Juices run down his face as he devours her—it is like biting into a particularly succulent peach. Hannibal plunges his tongue inside of her and lets his nose rub up against her swollen clitoris, earning him a deep moan.

“Don’t stop,” Bedelia cries as she grinds down upon him. He carries on, unconcerned for once for the mess he is making. It is worth it when she comes for him at last, a rush of fluid spraying into his mouth like a rivulet.

*****

They lie entwined in each other’s arms, sweaty but sated. Bedelia rests her left hand on his chest and Hannibal smiles to see her diamond ring sparkle in the moonlight. He rains gentle kisses from her temples to her jaw until she sighs and snuggles against him, warm and content.

“Mrs. Lecter,” he says, a phrase he never thought he would utter. Hannibal brings her hand to his lips and kisses her open palm. “Though after tonight, I feel more like Mr. Du Maurier.”

Bedelia’s eyes flicker in the dark with a mischievousness that is utterly becoming. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” He pauses for a moment then adds, “I have no problem conceding power to you in the bedroom, as long as you recognize the kitchen as my domain.”

Bedelia’s expression turns inward—the implications of such an arrangement are by no means small. “How many times have I told patients that compromise is the foundation of marriage?” she muses aloud. “Very well, I accept this arrangement.”

“Another stalemate.”

Bedelia shakes her head. “Not a stalemate, Hannibal. Balance.” She presses her closed lips against his, sealing their latest peace treaty with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Bedelia's harness is a RodeoH lace panty, fyi. Highly recommend over a conventional harness.


End file.
